They have the satellites in electronic memory,
We store those images behind pink-lit eyelids
Amongst the lunar gloss.
There is a calm which transports,
An iodine atmosphere, layering gasses,
The motley tally of smidgens connecting.
A remote grid charts it.
I have the distances from the sun
Listed in scads of miles,
An approach of empty space.
An ebony mystery with twinkling stars.
We are a ticklish ship’s combo
Cramped in burly moments
In a module that has become the world.
Work late, restless
Till supper has the flavour of daybreak.
A shortcoming of meaningless vision,
Capacity of the inner capsule,
Mainframe light, tinged emerald.
And boredom, the colour black.
The millenniums of silence, an expectant tension,
The magnetic supremacy of the nova-orbit
Drifts into the computer.
Soon we’ll be sending messages home,
We have in framed holds:
Extensions of forever, the crabby fear of oblivion,
A pungent mist of grim eternity.